


Visions of the Past, Dancing Through Light

by KChan88



Series: Visions of the Past [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Modern AU, Reincarnation, Slight E/R
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow, Jean Prouvaire convinces Enjolras to let them host a charity ball for the benefit of a local soup kitchen. Grantaire has bloody, bewildering dreams, dreams of his friends, of Enjolras, of rising up to confront soldiers. But the dreams do not complete themselves until he teasingly convinces Enjolras to dance, and suddenly he’s overcome with images, only to realize that Enjolras and Combeferre’s dreams are being haunted by the very same visions. Meanwhile, Courfeyrac dances with nearly everyone.</p>
<p>Note: The song mentioned in this is “Lover of the Light" by Mumford and Sons, in case anyone was curious!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visions of the Past, Dancing Through Light

 Jean Prouvaire, Grantaire decides, has mastered the art of manipulation.

Because the combination of his sunny, strawberry blonde hair falling in loose waves to the top of his shoulders, that melancholic look in his big light brown eyes that are reminiscent of the most adorable puppy you’ve ever laid eyes on, and a voice like persuasive poetry that someone convinces you whatever he’s talking about is an utterly fabulous idea, is deadly.

Otherwise, there’s no way Enjolras would have agreed to the Friends of Freedom hosting a charity ball.

“But Enjolras,” Jehan said slyly, that ever familiar twinkle in his eyes. “People _love_ balls, particularly if there’s an open bar, and with all the ticket sales we could give money to that soup kitchen in the center of the city they’re trying to shut down because the owners can’t afford the building repairs.”

Enjolras had surveyed Jehan intently for a moment, but despite the seriousness in his gaze, Grantaire hadn’t missed the fond smile just barely quirking his lips. The group had received a few donations from a mixture of private citizens who believe in their cause, and a rather large one from a state senator, so there was money to put on an event.

“All right,” Enjolras finally said, smile growing even as he tried and failed at sounding exasperated. “But you’re in charge of planning it, Jehan. I have all the faith in you.”

And so Grantaire finds himself standing at the bar next to Bahorel, who is on his third beer already in celebration of passing the bar along with Bossuet, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac.

“You’re still only halfway done with your second one, R?” Bahorel questions, turning away from the bartender. “Falling behind.”

“Mhmm,” Grantaire says, looking over at where Enjolras stands with Combeferre and Feuilly, dressed in the black tux and red waistcoat and tie Grantaire knows Courfeyrac picked out, blonde hair tied back, the few stray curls that usually fall into his face slicked back with some type of gel, which was probably also Courfeyrac’s doing.

“Talkative too,” Bahorel cuts in, narrowing his eyes slightly in concern as he looks at Grantaire. “You look tired, and I heard you messing around with the TV in the living room last night at 3 AM. I’m not one to get into serious talk at parties, but…”

“Haven’t been sleeping well,” Grantaire mutters, rubbing at his eyes. “Weird dreams.”

Weird is a bit of an understatement, he thinks. Bizarre, fucked up, downright strange and slightly terrifying might be more suitable words. They’d started a few weeks after Enjolras, Bahorel, Bossuet, and Courfeyrac graduated from law school and happened every few nights since. Sometimes he dreams of the back room of an old café, occupied with these same friends in altogether different clothing, chatting over half-empty glasses of red wine. Sometimes he sees himself slumped over a table with absinthe, the disappointed gaze of a very familiar blonde man looking down on him, mixed with a sliver of empathy in shades of cornflower blue. Sometimes he sees a small apartment littered with art canvases, though the only difference between dreams and reality with that is the setting. On the worst nights he sees a smoke-filled barricade from the window of the same café, sees himself waking up to a room filled with bodies and blood and the scent of death. He sees Enjolras standing in the corner, guns pointed in his direction.

The only trouble is he never sees what happens next.

“Had a strange dream last night myself,” Bahorel adds, and Grantaire walks with him across the room. “Kept seeing what looks like 1800s Paris, or something. Odd.”

They walk in the direction of Enjolras, Combeferre, and Feuilly, going past Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, who are dancing in a circle together, their laughter echoing through the room as Bossuet makes every effort not to trip over his own two feet. Thankfully he seems to be succeeding, for the most part.

“Well aren’t you three the wallflowers?” Bahorel asks with a teasing smile as they reach the trio. “Haven’t seen you out on the floor all night. Come on Feuilly, I know you’ve got the skills.”

“And you are a blatant liar,” Feuilly responds, but he smiles as he takes a sip of his drink. “It’s enough you got me in this tuxedo in the first place, Bahorel. And besides, you missed it; Jehan already dragged me out on the floor. You missed it because you are perpetually tardy.”

“I hope there’s proof!” Bahorel exclaims in utter delight. “Please tell me someone took pictures.”

“Musichetta did,” Feuilly grumbles. “Jehan made sure of it.”

“All right then,” Bahorel says, eyeing Combeferre and Enjolras. “Just you two left then.”

Combeferre raises his eyebrows, smirking slightly.

“If you think you’re getting me out there, then you’ve got another thing coming, my friend,” he says dryly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“I like a challenge,” Bahorel returns, poking Combeferre in the chest. “You should know that. Besides you look dashing in that blue waistcoat; why let it go to waste?”

“What about you, Enjolras?” Grantaire asks, turning to their chief.

“I’m all right,” Enjolras says. “But Jehan was right about a ball; this place is almost packed to the gills. We’ll be able to make a substantial donation to that soup kitchen. Hopefully it will help.”

Enjolras brightens at those words, looking truly enthused for the first time all evening. Enjolras is excessively talented at speaking to and inspiring large groups, but as far as social situations go, Grantaire knows he’s most comfortable around their immediate group of friends, plus Cosette, Eponine, and Musichetta, so it is a testament to his belief in expanding his horizons as far as charity events go, and his belief in his friends’ various talents, that he’s here, outside of his normal comfort zone.

The music slows down a bit, a song Grantaire knows, a song Grantaire actually likes, drifts through the speakers.

“This is totally your song Apollo,” Grantaire says, holding out his hand with a grin. “Come on, dance with me. You have to dance at least once, you just passed the bar AND Jehan has put on this fabulous ball which is making money for charity.”

“What have I said about calling me that?” Enjolras asks, a hint of annoyance in his tone, but there’s a curiosity in his voice as well. “And…my song?”

“Lover of the light sounds like you to me,” Grantaire says. “Your hair practically glows in this lighting.”

“Quite right,” Combeferre says, amused, and Enjolras spins to face him, agape at his betrayal.

“Don’t look at me in that tone of voice,” Combeferre says, pressing Enjolras’ shoulder. “Besides, look how much fun Courfeyrac and Marius are having.”

Grantaire watches Enjolras’ eyes flicker to said pair; Courfeyrac spins a rather dizzy looking Marius around, while Cosette snaps pictures from the side, looking gleeful.

“Marius looks miserable,” Enjolras says in a matter of fact tone. “Cosette is the one who looks pleased at her boyfriend’s awkward dancing.”

“Please?” Grantaire tries in his best imitation of Jehan. “Just the one.”

“All right,” Enjolras says with a gentle roll of his eyes, taking the hand Grantaire offers. “Just the one.”

“Brilliant!” Grantaire says, shaking off the sudden bout of nerves he feels.

But the minute Enjolras’ skin comes into contact with his, an image flashes in his brain.

_Rising up from a table, eyes bleary from sleep and alcohol._

_But he’s suddenly struck sober by the vision of Enjolras up against the wall, tossing away his gun._

_“Shoot me.”_

_His own voice._

_“Long live the republic! I am one of them!”_

 The image breaks off, still feeling incomplete.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks as they reach the floor. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Grantaire mutters. “Sorry. I think the better question is are you ready for these mad dancing skills of mine?”

Enjolras shoots him a disbelieving look, but is clearly entertained despite himself. Grantaire places Enjolras’ other hand on his waist, placing his own hand lightly on Enjolras’ back.

But the minute they begin, there’s a problem.

“Hold on there mister,” Grantaire says. “I asked you, I get to lead.”

“Says who?” Enjolras argues with healthy dose of petulance.

“Says the person whose mother forced him into cotillion class,” Grantaire quips. “Did your mother make _you_ take cotillion classes, Enjolras?”

“Yes,” Enjolras admits. “But it only lasted a couple of weeks when I found out it wasn’t open to everyone.”

“Of course,” Grantaire says, unable to keep from smiling. “So let me lead?”

“Fine,” Enjolras relents.

Grantaire pulls him in a little closer, and they make their way around the dance floor, the music swelling in their ears.

“You’re quite light on your feet,” Enjolras says, smiling. “Color me impressed. I feel marginally less ridiculous than expected.”

He squeezes Grantaire’s hand, another snapshot flashing in his mind.

_Guns pointed at him._

_At Enjolras._

_“Two at one shot…do you permit it?”_

_A smile that makes him feel as if the very angels in heaven sing in a choir around him._

_A warm, comforting, slightly trembling hand enveloping his._

_Acceptance._

_Love._

_The proud defiance in Enjolras’ eyes as they face the soliders._

_A strange surge of happiness, here at the end._

_Freedom, belief overtaking the darkening, creeping doubt._

_Physical pain. Bullets._

_But still freedom._

He stops for a moment, shaking his head free of the convoluted images.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks again. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you have a headache?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Grantaire says, starting to dance again. “I keep having…strange dreams. And then sometimes…well, I guess you’d call them daydreams? But not really. I don’t know.”

“Dreams about…what?” Enjolras asks, a gleam of interest in his eyes.

“It’s going to sound insane,” Grantaire evades.

“Try me.”

“I dunno…France, a café, a battle of some kind, our friends. You,” Grantaire hesitates. “You and me…dying. Together.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen.

“I told you it was crazy,” Grantaire says quickly. “Let’s just keep dancing, okay? Song’s almost over.”

“Not crazy,” Enjolras insists. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “I’ve been…having dreams of those same things. And then during the day almost like memories, usually when I touch one of you. It…I don’t know. It started happening right before graduation, and only got more intense that day, and apparently there was a rebellion in France on the fifth and sixth of June…”

“Whoa, slow down there,” Grantaire says. “Are you suggesting this is…real?”

“I don’t know. It seems insane.”

“Has anyone else experienced this?” Grantaire asks, glancing around the room.

“Combeferre,” Enjolras says, voice even softer now. “I told him about mine the day after graduation and his started that night. It was the same; barricades, Paris, that café. All of it. Courfeyrac hasn’t shown any signs yet, but mine and Combeferre’s…they just keep getting more and more vivid. But we wanted to wait, to see if anyone else mentioned it. If not, we were going to mention it ourselves.”

Grantaire holds Enjolras closer as the song ends and another song begins, and Enjolras doesn’t protest, resting his head against Grantaire’s and exhaling a breath.

Grantaire scarcely has time to register the intimacy before Courfeyrac waltzes by with none other than Combeferre, who looks ready to slap him, but there’s also a chuckle escaping his lips, no matter how he tries to fight the urge.

“Look who I found!” Courfeyrac calls. “Combeferre being a wallflower, what a surprise! Luckily he could not resist my charms.”

“Couldn’t resist you refusing to stop chanting my name aloud, is more the truth,” Combeferre says, but there’s a wry, indulgent smile playing at his lips. 

“It’s what you get for betraying me, Ferre,” Enjolras says, the smile reaching his eyes now as he stands up straight and observes his two best friends, his expression suggesting that there are more of the strange memories flooding his mind.

“Fair enough,” Combeferre answers, and Grantaire watches him meet eyes with Enjolras over his glasses, seemingly reading their chief’s mind and instantly understanding the situation, realizing through their ever present, almost telepathic tendencies, that Grantaire too, is having the dreams. “I deserved it.”

Courfeyrac protests something along the lines of “deserve? You should be pleased to dance with me, Combeferre” as they dance away.

“We will talk,” Enjolras confirms, turning his attentions back to Grantaire, making no move to move away or stop dancing. “But I suppose here isn’t the best place.”

“No,” Grantaire sighs, unable to release the image of bullets flying at him, his hand in Enjolras’, feeling terrified and yet completely safe all in one simultaneous moment. “No I suppose it isn’t.  Can’t have people thinking we’re crazy.”

Enjolras chuckles, and the sound warms Grantaire down the tips of his toes.

Somehow, he’s never felt more right.

 

 


End file.
